Authors Note: Alright then! Here's the second chapter! Hopefully I will be able to post a new chapter at least a couple times a week, but sorry for the delay… apparently 8th grade teachers love to have little competitions to see who can hand out the most homework. Anyway, thank you SO SO SO much for the follows/favorites, and your kind reviews!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. In order to do that I would have to be an older British male with a deep bottomless pit for a heart, AKA Steven Moffat. (Just kidding, we all love you no matter how much we say we hate you :).
SsSsSsSs
Molly let her eyes flutter open; wincing at the pain in her side. She tried to recollect where she was; what had happened. It was as if her train of thought had derailed itself. She couldn't focus, she couldn't think, and what scared her most was that she couldn't figure out where the hell she was right now.
"Feeling better, then?" She heard the voice say.
She had heard it somewhere before; if only she could remember where. She blinked and scrunched her face up trying to focus on the figure seeping through the blur of her vision.
"John?… I… where am I?" she managed to speak. "You're in the hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?" he asked.
Molly closed her eyes, almost wishing she hadn't remembered. It was obvious that Sherlock told John everything. He had to, considering the fact that Molly had found and dialed John's phone number before dropping the phone in a panic. She had blinked the fuzz out of her vision, and focused on the short sandy haired man standing before her. John smiled and placed his hand over hers.
"Yes." Molly replied rather sadly, glancing down at her bandaged wrist and waist.
John looked at her with understanding written all over his face. "How are you doing?" "How do you think?" she asked.
This seemed to leave John speechless, so instead of answering, he bent down to kiss her forehead gently. "I promise you, everything will be okay." He said. "Where's Sherlock? Oh god, he's alright, isn't he?" Molly asked frantically.
"Shh, calm down. You saved him, remember?" John reminded. "Right, sorry. He is okay though, isn't he?" "Of course. Just relax, and I'll send for Sherlock." he said kindly. "Thank you." Molly croaked, sinking back into the bed.
MmMmMm
Sherlock let the heat and anger flood his body; his blood still pumping with adrenaline. He was angry. It was the type of anger that he'd felt as he watched John near his head stone on those distant nights, taking to upturned dirt, and fake flowers. Or, perhaps that was guilt. Either way, the feeling was new to him, and he hated it.
He didn't know exactly what kept him from killing Brian Lucas on sight. I mean, let's face it. It wouldn't be the first time he wiped his hands clean of someone else's blood. Maybe it was simply because Molly was there. Then again, when had Sherlock Holmes ever acted reflecting upon the actions of others? And then he thought back to 6 months ago, when he hid away at Molly's flat after faking his suicide.
Someone had followed Molly back from one of her late shifts at St. Bart's. Sherlock had heard the screaming from the bottom flight of stairs, realizing exactly who it came from. It didn't even take him 4 seconds to work out what was happening. He jumped from his spot on the couch and felt through his pocket for the gun he kept with him, busting through the front door. The man had his hands constricted around Molly's throat, which sent chills up Sherlock's spine.
In the end, Sherlock shot the man 3 times, and he lost most of his blood; which didn't make for a very clean crime scene.
Of course he had to hide in the alleys, making Molly lie to Lestrade. She told him that a strange man had run to her rescue, and that he had fled the scene after the shots were fired. The man was hospitalized for weeks before they finally sent him away to Pentavil prison. Meanwhile Molly kept her arms locked her arms around Sherlock, and cried until the tears stopped coming, and she fell asleep in the arms of the consulting detective.
That was pretty much the first time that Sherlock and Molly had really bonded. After that night, Sherlock held himself back from most of his snarky comments, and he actually got along with someone other than John and Mrs. Hudson. From that night forward, Sherlock promised to protect her at all costs, and tonight was the night that he had broken that promise to himself.
This Brian Lucas man was no exception. Sherlock strode into the police station with his head held high, and his focus on the copper doors that led to the interrogation room. He briefly glanced around to get a feel for his surroundings.
"Sherlock, calm yourself down before you walk in there." Lestrade urged. "And why should I?" "There's no need to get upset. Just stay calm, and ask the necessary questions." Lestrade demanded.
Sherlock grinned malevolently towards the doors "Oh no worries, Lestrade. I'll go easy on him."
Lestrade sighed, rolled his eyes, and then proceeded to unlock the doors. "God help him." He mumbled under his breath.
Sherlock now stood before the rather calm looking Brian, still grinning eerily. He looked closely at his face, which he had beaten to a blue and purple mess of bloody cuts and scrapes. Feeling a bit better at this, he let the anger in the pit of his stomach reside as he spoke.
"Here's how this is going to work. I talk, and you listen. You answer my questions when asked, and no playing games, am I clear?" Sherlock enlightened the man.
Brian let a grin cross his face, though he found nothing funny. "And what happens if I don't want to play along, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock grinned back at him. "Well, if you follow my orders I might let you live to see tomorrow."
Sherlock felt his cheeks turn a bright red due to the amount of restraint it took to stop from killing this man on site. He studied every aspect of the man whom he was absolutely disgusted with in front of him; making mental notes to further use against him in his interrogation. The man's eyes brightened a bit, and he began to laugh for some odd reson.
"Did I anger you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "Yes." Sherlock replied swiftly. "I made you angry, because I hit you where it hurt, and you know that don't you?" He spat.
Sherlock's grin was wiped clean off of his face, now taking a more serious approach. "I believe I'll be asking the questions, Mr. Lucas." The dark haired man said mockingly. "Why of all people would you go after her?" he asked.
"Who?" the man asked. "You know who."
At this, the man in the seat only feet away from Sherlock burst into an eerie, sick laughter, which erupted into a fit of coughing. "No. You see, Sherlock Holmes; I wasn't after her. She was just a bonus, you see. I was after you." the man hissed.
Sherlock eyed the man questionably. "What kind of game are you playing with me?" he hissed, obviously pushed to the point of frustration. "I'm just playing the games, Mr. Holmes." He smiled slyly.
Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the man. "Before you… attacked Molly, you were talking to her. What were you telling her?" the consulting detective hesitated a bit with this question.
"I told her that she was caught in the crossfire; the aftermath of a war that's been happening since long before your time; long before my time. This is the Aftermath of the war. This is how the war ends." The man gave another sly smile that made Sherlock sick.
"What is this war you're talking about?" Sherlock asked. "Ask your brother. He knows all about it."
Now Sherlock was growing impatient. "You didn't answer my question. And how exactly do you plan to end this while locked up in a prison cell?" Sherlock replied, a little bit too confidently.
The man was interrupted by Lestrade, who had let himself in the room. "Sherlock, time's up." He said, tapping his wrist watch persistently.
"Wait a moment. You still need to answer me." Sherlock scowled. "Sherlock, let's go." Lestrade said once more. The man named Brian laughed unfeelingly at this.
Sherlock slammed his fist into the hard metal table. "Tell me!" "All in good time, Mr. Holmes." He retorted.
By this time, Lestrade had pried Sherlock from his seat, and shoved him out of the door. "What the hell was that? I almost had the information I needed out of him!" Sherlock yelled.
"Calm down. I've just got word from the hospital." He spoke with delicacy in his words, which admittedly made Sherlock nervous.
"And?" "She's stable, just a bit shaken up. John says she's doing well, but she's asking for you." He explained.
Sherlock allowed relief to flood his body, and let out a breath he had no idea he was holding. "Thank you for all of your help, Detective Inspector. That'll be all." Sherlock said formally, striding towards the doors, and hailing a cab.
SsSsSsSs
It seemed like forever before Sherlock finally arrived. He looked at Molly; her brown eyes staring off somewhere into space before turning to return the consulting detectives glance. He took a seat that was inches away from the bed. They sat in silence for what seemed like forever before Sherlock finally spoke.
"If you're worried about Brian, don't be. I took care of him." "I'm not." Molly replied shortly.
Sherlock stayed silent for once, which was strangely unusual for him. "Then what are you worried about?" he asked. "Do you know what he whispered in my ear… before he tried to kill me, I mean?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. "Yes. Nothing to worry about, the man is obviously in need of mental stability." He lied. "Trust me. You have nothing to worry about. He's behind bars now, and that's all that matters."
"Why don't I believe you?" Molly asked. "Brian is a murderer. For the sake of all sanity, don't take his word over mine. What he did; what he said he was going to do… it was all just part of his little game." Sherlock explained.
Molly's eyelids had grown heavy already, and she was fighting to stay awake. "That's the morphine making you sleepy. You should get some rest. I'll still be here when you wake up." Sherlock looked over to the small pathologist, who had grown quiet in the small hospital bed.
Somewhere in the conversation she had dozed off, which sort of annoyed Sherlock, even though he wouldn't admit it. Somewhere in between the state of falling asleep and fighting to stay awake, Sherlock leaned over Molly, carefully pressing his lips against her warm, fragile skin. Molly swore that it was the medication, but somewhere in the midst of all of this, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock whisper something almost inaudible. "Thank you." the soft baritone voice spoke.
Yup, she thought, it's definitely the medicine.
Authors Note: Soooooo…. I hope you liked this chapter! Again, I'm sorry I'm like 3 weeks late! Hopefully I'll make better use of my time. I'm entering a writing competition, where I'll be writing an original novel, (5,000 words at minimum), and posting it to a website, so I might stall this fic again… Please bear with me. :) Thank you so much for your support! Please, please, please follow and review! Thank you!
XXX Danielle